


No Matter the Cost

by Elisif



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-06 13:36:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5419061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elisif/pseuds/Elisif
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fingon is caring for his cousin in the aftermath of his rescue from Angband, but much still remains unspoken between the two of them</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Matter the Cost

Fingon had agreed to give the exhausted a healers a much-needed break and tend to his cousin’s needs for the night. He had sponge-bathed what little of Maitimo’s body was not swathed in bandages he lacked the skill to remove, applied cooling salve to his still-healing sunburns, dried and dressed him in a clean nightshirt, carried him back to bed, brought him medicine-laced tea and soup and a knitted hat to protect his shorn head from the cold. Now he heated a poultice and laid it on a cloth on the pillow, gently arranged his cousin’s head so the warm herbs would soothe the mess of infected cuts around his temple and left eye while he slept. He looked peaceful, if not exactly content, his breathing reasonably steady and quietly Fingon withdrew to the chair beside the bed and resumed knitting on a pair of thick socks as he cautiously watched over him.

For a few moments the tent was quiet, save for the gentle click of knitting needles and his cousin’s peaceful breathing, until his left hand began to stir.

Fingon watched as his cousin’s eyes flickered open and, from between the tight wrap of many layers of bandages, the tips of his cousin’s index and middle finger wiggled free enough to pinch and tug at the cross-stitched neckline of his nightshirt. Not daring to risk a serious infection on his one remaining hand- which he had bitten to shreds in an effort to withstand the pain on Thangorodrim- the healers had bound it up in layers upon layers of bandages, leaving his left hand almost as clumsy as the swollen stump of his right. His fingers were clumsy, hesitant; something in his throat clicked as he swallowed and stared down at the hem of cloth between his fingers them as though it were somehow miraculous and Fingon’s heart ached.

“What’s wrong, Nelyo?” he asked, setting his knitting down against his thigh and making his voice as kind as he could muster, though dread knotted at his heart.

Painstakingly, his cousin inched his head upwards to face him, cheek crushed into the poultice against the pillow and eyes bloodshot.

“What are you going to do when they come back for me, Finno?” he finally asked.

Fingon’s heart sank in his chest like a rock, the way the dagger that had severed his friend’s hand had sunk into the black waters of Lake Mithrim where he had discarded it upon his return.

As though awaiting some cruel judgement, his cousin looked up at him, his eyes bruised and aching with terror.

“Please,” he said, laying his bandaged hand out on the mattress, “Please don’t send me back…”

“Back? To _Angband_? What are you talking about Nelyo? Why on earth would we do that? You’re free, we’re home, it’s all over now…”

A slight whimper bled from his throat, and achingly he curled his arms up against his chest. After a silence that ached in Fingon’s bones like frostbite, he continued:

“It’s what they always did. They would send me somewhere to heal and recover then things would be better… for a bit. But then they always came back, they would take away _everything_ and the pain would start all over again…”

“Is that what’s been frightening you all these past weeks?” Fingon asked, loss for words. “ _Nelyo…”_

A whine bled from his throat; his eyes shut tight and he lifted his arm to bite down on the bandaged back of his hand, but sternly Fingon grabbed his wrist and held it firmly away from him, though he squirmed and twisted.

“Nelyo, please. If biting down on something helps with the pain, you tell us and we’ll give you something and that’s perfectly alright, it just _can’t_ be your hand, it’s already hurt, you have to be careful…”

His cousin squirmed in Fingon’s grip, but finally he relented and Fingon let his arm go. His cousin drew breath, cradled his wrist against his chest and softly he began to cry, crushing his face into the pillow and wincing at the pressure on his infected temple and swollen eye. Swiftly Fingon grabbed a cloth from the bedside table and began to wipe away some of the tears silently trickling down his cousin’s cheek, dragging the fold of cloth in a twisted path around of hurt skin like a raindrop cavorting down a window pane.

“Nelyo, listen to me,” he said, looking him in the eyes and folding the cloth back up into his hand. “The only part of this that is temporary is you being so ill, do you understand? I swear it to you.”

“But…”

“What, Nelyo?” he said.

“But… You _stole_ me from them Finno. They’ll be angry, they’ll try to take me back…”

His eyes looked so fragile, so childlike; searing, acid rage boiled in Fingon’s throat and it took all his strength to sound calm and gentle as he patted his friend’s hand and said:

“I did not steal you, Nelyo, because you are not a thing that can be stolen and I will not let you believe such a thing. You are a person and you belong to no one but yourself, not to them, not to your brothers, not to me, do you understand?”

“But…” he rubbed his eye and damp cheek with his bandaged knuckles. “But how am I supposed to believe that… I don’t even know where we are Finno. Are… are we far away? From there, from them? I know this is where my brothers live now, but I don’t remember… how long it took to come here…”

Fingon cleared his throat.

“I’m sorry Nelyo that none of us thought to explain that to you. It must have been confusing for you, waking up here and not knowing anything that had happened in between. Thorondor bore us hundreds of miles from… from where I found you. This is the settlement your brothers have built here, at a place called Mithrim in the east of Beleriand. There is a city here of sorts and an army and a wall around the settlement, and then hundreds of miles of mountains and forest between here and Angband. There is much more than just this tent here, and there’s an entire army and all six of your brothers and me to keep you safe, alright?”

“Alright…”

Fingon laid his hand out on the mattress beside his friend’s pillow, and with sudden force his cousin laid his bandaged hand on top of his wrist, pressing down hard.

“Just promise me Finno… If they come back, don’t try to fight. Let someone else fight them. I know it’s wrong I know it’s selfish I can’t lose you. I _can’t_!”

His clumsy hand grabbed at Fingon’s wrist, holding on desperately even through such pitiful weakness. And ever so gently, Fingon took his hand in both of his and bent down to face him so their lashes all but touched.

“I won’t fight them,” he said. “If they come back for you, I’ll pick you up and carry you somewhere far away. This I promise you. Like I did in the mountains. We’ll leave the heroism and the honour to someone else. We won’t fight; we’ll run away to somewhere no one can hurt you. I promise. And if you can’t run, I’ll carry you.”

“Really?”

“Really. I… If it’s what gives you peace of mind, I swear I won’t fight the people who did this to you unless you command me to. You are my king and I am your loyal vassal,” he said, and bent down and kissed his bandaged knuckles.

When he flited his head from the gesture and met his friend’s eyes, there was a moment’s breathless silence. Then, for the first time in so many years and in the past weeks that felt just as long, he heard his cousin laugh. It was an awful noise, guttural, somewhere between a sob and a choke, but Fingon loved the sound.

“I had forgotten…” he croaked, “about being the King. I look ridiculous, don’t I?”

“No comment,” said Fingon, a smile lighting up the corners of his mouth at the traces of mirth on his cousin’s haggard face.

With the faintest trace of a smile, he rolled his head wearily back into the pillow and closed his eyes. For a moment Fnigon looked at him, savouring this rare moment of happiness amid so much agony, then Fingon lifted up the edges of the furs and blankets and tucked them back around his shoulders.

“Sleep well, Nelyo,” he said and returned to his knitting. He had betrayed his friend’s trust once before, and by the grace of the Valar, he would never do it again, no matter the cost.


End file.
